


Rainbow

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Chicago Pride Fest, M/M, Symphonic Band AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7424080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanamaki slammed his hands onto the table. Fortunately, only the hotel receptionist gave any notice. “I get that we’re going to be performing at the world-famous Chicago Pride Festival tomorrow, but there’s a HUGE difference between supporting gay and actually being gay, okay? Especially when it’s your BEST FRIEND that you have a crush on, because that’s goddamn terrifying.”</p>
<p>Iwaizumi’s mouth fell open, because in a few sentences, Hanamaki had just summed up everything that had been building up inside Iwaizumi ever since he was little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> So, my amazing and awesome friend told me about the Chicago Pride Fest, and it inspired me to write this.

Iwaizumi Hajime wasn’t someone who was good at noticing subtle hints, especially when it came to romance, especially when it came to himself. It was sometime in his third year of Junior High when his sexuality finally gave up on gently nudging him in the side and just slapped Iwaizumi full across the face.

Lazy afternoon sun streamed into Oikawa’s bedroom, where Iwaizumi was sitting on the floor with his notebook balanced on his lap. He was trying to graph quadratic functions and wasn’t making much progress; why the hell did one have to complete the square to graph a fucking curve?

Oikawa, on the other hand, was already finished with all of his homework. Bastard. He was splayed out on the bed, alternating between playing Taylor Swift songs on his clarinet and chattering about his newest alien conspiracy theory. Iwaizumi did his best to tune him out.

“Hey? Iwa-chan, are you even listening?” Oikawa asked, and Iwaizumi made no reply, pointedly scratching his pencil against the page. Then Oikawa leaned over, positioned his clarinet in front of Iwaizumi’s face, and blew a D-flat right through his concentration. Iwaizumi’s head snapped up, eyes filled with murderous intent.

“I swear, if you do that _one more time_...” Iwaizumi threatened, but it had no bite behind it. He’d done the same thing to Oikawa ever since they’d picked their instruments in grade school.

“We all know that playing the clarinet is my forte,” Oikawa responded. His mouth lifted up in a smirk, and Iwaizumi bit back a comment about how much treble Oikawa would be in. No need to encourage him.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Oikawa said, now that he’d gotten Iwaizumi’s attention, “you know Aiko-chan? I found out she likes you. I don’t know why she would, but-”

“Shut up, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi grumbled.

“But you should go for it,” Oikawa said. “I mean, she’s cool. As cool as someone from orchestra could ever be.”

“I’ll think about it,” Iwaizumi muttered, even though he really wasn’t going to. It wasn’t that Aiko wasn’t cool, because Aiko _was_ cool, ever since she’d shoved that letter into Oikawa’s hands that turned out not to be a confession letter at all but rather a three-page essay on why band wasn’t better than orchestra.

And sometimes, Iwaizumi wondered why he didn’t feel anything at all for her. He’d thought about it multiple times, actually. She was pretty and smart and called Oikawa out when he was being ridiculous, but Iwaizumi had never felt anything vaguely romantic at all except for that one occasion when he’d watched her play the violin. Her eyes had blazed with the desire to win, to be the best at all costs. But that was one time, and it had felt wrong somehow.

“She was kidding around about how you’d probably be really good at kissing ‘cause you play the trumpet so well,” Oikawa said teasingly.

“Good lord, that is _not_ how it works,” Iwaizumi groaned.

Oikawa grinned. “I mean, it makes sense though, right? For all our conductor yelling at us to use more tongue and stuff.”

“Gross.”

“I mean, that’s probably why _I’m_ such a good kisser,” Oikawa sing-songed, bringing his clarinet to his lips and playing a messy rendition of “You Belong With Me”. He quirked a suggestive eyebrow as his lips sucked and licked around the mouthpiece, clearly with the intent of causing Iwaizumi discomfort.

Iwaizumi wanted to make a snide comment like _date your clarinet because no girl will ever be able to put up with you_ , but it died in his mouth when his mind superimposed an image of himself over Oikawa’s instrument, as if he were the one making out with his best friend and _oh god why was this happening to him? Why why why why why-_

Iwaizumi shook himself temporarily out of his personal mental hell. “I feel really bad for your clarinet,” he snapped, ducking his attention back to the graphs on the page.

He sighed. Those fucking parabolas. Not straight, just like him.

\---

His realization didn’t change too much of anything. Oikawa was too much of an idiot to get all starry-eyed and romantic over, so Iwaizumi continued to physically and verbally pummel him and make sure he didn’t beat himself up over the clarinet. The only thing that changed was that Iwaizumi never, ever brought up the topic of girls, and they were best friends who never talked about the subject of romance.

He and Oikawa had gone to Aoba Johsai because of how good their music program was, but there was one factor that truly set their high school apart from the others: Seijoh was extremely liberal, especially concerning LGBT issues. They’d often get invited to Pride festivals and events. It wasn’t something anyone mentioned, but there it was, that hesitant deviation from the traditional views.

Still, Iwaizumi never told anyone he was gay. No matter how accepting people might seem, coming out was a terrifying affair, one that Iwaizumi didn’t want to risk.

Besides, there was music, homework, and well, the general business of keeping Oikawa under control, so Iwaizumi didn’t have any time to angst over his crush.

In high school, band got to become a more serious affair, and the battles over first chair were bloody ones. Iwaizumi and Oikawa slaved over audition pieces, and when the seating charts came out, both were victorious.

They met Hanamaki, first-chair trombonist, and Matsukawa, first-chair alto-saxophonist. While both of them were absolutely _deadly_ at their respective instruments, they were sassy and chill about everything else, with a kind of telepathy that rivaled even Iwaizumi’s and Oikawa’s.

Oikawa would often ship them and stage-whisper to Iwaizumi about how cute of a couple they’d be. Whenever he did, Iwaizumi would always scoff and cuff him on the head with a “None of your business”, but he secretly wondered if Oikawa was serious. Oikawa had never explicitly stated his views on homosexuality, so was he kidding when he said that he’d like to see Hanamaki and Matsukawa get together? Iwaizumi would never ask.

“So, I got us a gig,” Irihata-sensei said one day. “In America.”

Everyone leaned forward. Iwaizumi’s eyes widened at this news, because even though Aoba Johsai’s band was good enough to play all over in Japan, they’d never went overseas. And America? That was _huge_.

Irihata-sensei smiled. “Yeah, we got a hotel booked and everything. We’re going to be featured in the world-famous Chicago Pride Festival, and you’ll get seen on national television and all that. It’s a great opportunity for you.”

Hanamaki bolted out of his chair and yelled, “Can I dye my hair rainbow?”

“Can I paint myself rainbow?” Matsukawa hollered back, and just like that, the entire room was engulfed in a competition of hypothetically out-rainbowing each other.

“All right, all right, settle down,” Irihata-sensei said, casting a stern eye on the Makki-Mattsun duo. “Since you don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of millions of people, you all need to practice. A lot. I’m not kidding, ya’ll. At least two hours every day.”

Irihata-sensei began to pass out sheet music to everyone. Iwaizumi crammed it into his band binder, which was falling apart at the seams from abuse.

He was excited for the trip, he supposed. He’d traveled to America when he was really little, and he didn’t remember all that much except that he’d wanted to look everywhere at once.

But Iwaizumi wondered if it was a bit hypocritical of him to play his trumpet in the internationally-recognized Chicago Pride Festival when he could barely admit to himself that he was gay.

\---

They had a month to practice for the parade. Oikawa would stay up until two in the morning playing his clarinet, and sometimes a distant hum of the melody would float across the street and into Iwaizumi’s room. Occasionally when that happened, Iwaizumi would text Oikawa saying _shut up it’s past midnight_ and pull his covers over his head, but more often than not he’d respond to Oikawa’s music with some of his own. Oikawa would snicker and reciprocate, and then they’d get into a ridiculous battle of instruments until a neighbor yelled at them to cut it out.

Their afternoons over at each other’s houses were now used for practice; sometimes they’d play on their own and criticize each other, other times, they’d practice their parts together to get a lock on the rhythm and tempo. Oikawa really was good at the clarinet, seamlessly integrating his part into Iwaizumi’s, the notes clicking themselves into place.

Those were the productive afternoons. This was not one of them.

“I hate your metronome,” Iwaizumi declared. Usually, he used his own, but he’d unfortunately forgotten it at school and had to borrow. Oikawa’s metronome was incredibly loud and annoying, much like Oikawa himself.

Even so, Iwaizumi could usually put up with it. However, there was one section that was a complete rhythmic minefield, littered with thirty-second rests and unconventional syncopation that had Iwaizumi slaving over it for hours on end. Add the nerve-wracking ticking of Oikawa’s metronome, and Iwaizumi seriously felt like he was ready to throw the damn thing out the window.

“Why the fuck do you still use that?” Iwaizumi asked, even though he already knew the answer. Because Oikawa never, ever got better equipment than he had to, because he wanted his playing to rely solely on his ability. In that way, Oikawa wasn’t a pretentious asshole.

“You know why,” Oikawa said, grinning. “Cause I make it sound good.”

“Right,” Iwaizumi said. “Like a dying cow.” Oikawa pouted in his routine of pretend-offense, which Iwaizumi ignored.

“You’re going all out on this, aren’t you?” Oikawa said, peering over Iwaizumi’s shoulder as he was feverishly muttering _1+2+3+4+_. “For the festival, I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you practice that much.”

Fuck. What did he mean by that? “So are you,” Iwaizumi said. It was true. Oikawa always played the clarinets for obscene amounts of time, but he usually didn’t expend so much effort on one event. But there he was, right with Iwaizumi, polishing his songs until they gleamed.

“Well, of course I would,” Oikawa said, stretching and folding his arms above his head. “Wouldn’t want to deprive America of _this_ , you know.”

“I’m not sure America will be able to handle your stupidity-”

“Don’t you mean my sheer brilliance, Iwa-chan?”

“As brilliant as a piece of trash.”

“So mean,” Oikawa whined, even though he was grinning. “But yeah, of course I’d go all out for this, Iwa-chan. Don’t you know how good I look in rainbow?”

“Like a fucking clown, I bet.”

“RUDE!”

\---

Iwaizumi was certain that the members of Aoba Johsai’s band were going to be _those_ tourists. The ones that random passerby would gawk at like “WTF are these people doing,” and Iwaizumi had about ten thousand embarrassing scenarios written out in his head by the time he’d finished packing.

To be honest, packing had never been Iwaizumi’s strong suit. He’d tried to fold his clothes but ended up squishing them into the bottom of his backpack, where surely they’d end up with wrinkles by the time he had to wear them. Besides that, he’d brought a wad of dollar bills that he’d traded for a few days ago, his identification papers, and of course, his necessary trumpet case. He didn’t bother with anything else.

Oikawa, on the other hand…

“What the hell is in there, Shittykawa?” Iwaizumi grunted, struggling to fit Oikawa’s bulging suitcase into the cab they’d hailed to the Miyagi airport. “We’re only going to be in America for two days!”

“Iwa-chan, don’t you know how much work it takes to get my hair to look like this every morning? Some of us care about our appearance, you know,” Oikawa said. He scrolled through his iPod and blasted a song loud enough to scare the nearby birds. The cab driver visibly winced, and Iwaizumi made a note to tip him extra for his pain.    

The lyrics were something about fireworks and color, and it nagged at something in the back of Iwaizumi’s mind. Then he realized.

“SHIT,” Iwaizumi yelled. “I didn’t bring anything rainbow on me.”

“So forgetful,” Oikawa chided, and Iwaizumi’s momentary panic morphed into a familiar irritation. “Lucky for you, I brought extra.”

He leaned over and unzipped his suitcase. Which was a terrible, terrible, idea. It was like a small hair-product factory suddenly exploded, a bottle of strawberry conditioner hitting Oikawa in the eye and getting pink gel across his face.

“NOT A WORD,” Oikawa yelped, trying to wipe the goo off while rifling through the mess. “Ah, here you go!” He tossed something toward Iwaizumi, who caught it with some apprehension.

He was expecting something bright and gaudy and flashy, something that would momentarily blind him. But it wasn’t. It was a simple set of wristbands striped in the colors of the rainbow. “...Thanks.”

“No need to sound so surprised, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said. “At least one of us has got it together.”

“Right…” Iwaizumi said dryly, eyeing the streaks conditioner still on Oikawa’s face. He sighed and began to organize Oikawa’s stuff into some semblance of order. “Here, let me help.”

“Hey,” the cab driver said, peering at them in the mirror. “Just out of curiousity… are you two going to a Pride Festival?”

“Yeah!” Oikawa said, immediately putting on a dazzling smile. “We’re going to be performing!”

“Oh, that’s awesome! I can’t go myself, but you and your boyfriend have fun.”

Iwaizumi dropped the shampoo bottle he was holding the same time Oikawa said coolly, “Oh, Iwa-chan? He’s not my boyfriend.”

The driver coloured. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I just assumed-”

“Yeah, _no_ ,” Oikawa said, wearing a rather forced smile on his face. “One, he’s ugly-” Iwaizumi whacked him “-and two, we’re both straight.”

\---

The entire Aoba Johsai marching band was going to be crammed into one plane, which should be listed as a definite flying hazard. Therefore, to prevent more damage than necessary, no one was allowed to sit next to each other.

When Oikawa and Iwaizumi arrived at the terminal, the first person they saw was Hanamaki, who was wearing a shirt with the word “JAPAAAAAAN” emblazoned on the chest.

“Nice shirt,” Iwaizumi said.

“Oh, thanks,” Hanamaki said. “It was made in China.”

Iwaizumi laughed and then glanced around the airport. Around them were various clusters of little bauble and souvenir shops and the densely-packed crowds of people, in which here and there could be spotted the occasional flash of rainbow.

Iwaizumi was still wearing the wristbands.

“I actually really hate flying,” Oikawa said.

“Oho? Is the great Oikawa Tooru afraid of heights?” Hanamaki said, leaning forward suggestively.

“No,” Oikawa said, “I just-”

“He gets sick really, really easily,” Iwaizumi interjected. His family and Oikawa would often vacation together, and Oikawa usually ended up staggering out of the plane, nearly unable to walk.

Hanamaki grinned. “Dude, I so wanna see you throw up all over a pretty flight attendant.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“I was a six-year-old!” Oikawa hissed, blushing furiously.

“And you still are one,” Iwaizumi and Hanamaki chorused, bumping fists. Oikawa groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Hey!” someone said. Iwaizumi looked up to see Matsukawa making their way toward them, Kindaichi in tow. “Aw, dammit. Did I miss a torture-Oikawa session?”

“Nah, you’re right on time,” Hanamaki said. “Oh, hey, Kindaichi. What’ve you been up to?”

Kindaichi looked slightly terrified at being surrounded by his upperclassmen, especially without Kunimi at his side. “Uh… I got lost,” he admitted. His face turned red, causing him to resemble a shallot even more.

“I found him near a Starbucks,” Matsukawa said.

“That should be a thing,” Hanamaki said. “If you’re lost, just run into a nearby Starbucks and one of us will pick you up.”

“That’s a pretty good idea. We are going to America, after all,” Matsukawa mused.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “How long’s the plane ride?”

“Twelve hours, I think,” said Kindaichi.

Hanamaki pretended to gape at Iwaizumi. “Can you and Oikawa stand to be apart for that long?”

“The answer to that is no,” said Matsukawa.

“Can you stand to _shut up_ for that long?” Iwaizumi fired back.

“The answer to that is _also_ no,” Hanamaki said.

Kindaichi mumbled something under his breath that sounded vaguely like _we’re going to get kicked off of this plane_.

\---

Iwaizumi sat in the middle seat, sandwiched between a mid-twenties guy wearing hipster glasses without lenses and a nice old lady who offered him cookies every time Iwaizumi tripped over her to go to the bathroom. (He politely declined).

A seat in front of him was Oikawa, who was playing his trashy music so loud that Iwaizumi could hear a tinny sound coming from his earbuds. For the first five hours or so, flight attendants bustled around handing everyone peanuts, and Iwaizumi tried to watch the movie playing on the screen a few rows ahead. It was in Russian. Why, on a flight from Japan to America, would they have the movies in fucking Russian?

After a while, the lights around him began to dim as people went to sleep. The noise of a baby sobbing could be heard a few rows back, melding into the constant whir of the engines. A dull headache throbbed at the back of Iwaizumi’s skull; his stomach felt heavy and his legs sweaty against the seat. He placed the issued plastic pillow on the desk in front of him, tried to extend his one-hundred and seventy-nine inches as best he could in the tiny space, and attempted to fall asleep.

Suddenly, he felt something shift beside him. A faint whisper of “Hey, can I switch with you?” could be heard, and then the lady next to him and rose and disappeared into the row in front. Oikawa slid into the seat next to Iwaizumi, fumbling with the seatbelt.

“Seriously?” Iwaizumi whispered, trying not to disturb anyone. “You just kicked an old lady out of her seat, and Irihata-sensei is going to murder you.”

Oikawa turned to face him. Jesus Christ, Iwaizumi had forgotten how airsick he would get. “Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, voice dry and face pale, “I can’t sleep, so can I use your shoulder as a pillow?”

“Of course, you moron,” Iwaizumi grumbled, sliding the armrest up so that Oikawa could fit his head in the crook of Iwaizumi’s neck. His hair was so, so incredibly soft, and Iwaizumi felt his head tipping onto Oikawa’s, finding that this position was far more comfortable than in any of his previous attempts to sleep.

He was just drifting off when he heard the window-seat guy mutter, “Dirty homos.” Iwaizumi found that he didn’t care in the least.

\---

Iwaizumi awoke to the sound of his ears popping. The plane was tilting downward, and a metallic speaker voice announced that they’d be landing in thirty minutes.

He shifted, and Oikawa’s head lolled a little bit on his shoulder. Next to him, the window-seat guy was reading a book. Iwaizumi opened up his phone and began to play some mindless game that didn’t require any wifi.

The plane took another dive, this time steep enough to wake Oikawa and cause him to moan and grab the paper bag in the seat-pocket in front of him. His face was now completely white and he looked utterly miserable.

When they landed, Oikawa practically threw off his seatbelt and staggered into the aisle. Iwaizumi stretched, a relief after being so cramped for twelve hours, and reached up to get Oikawa’s suitcase from the luggage compartment.

“Thanks,” Oikawa muttered, leaning onto it for support.

The window-seat guy whacked his luggage onto Iwaizumi’s head without a single apology. Iwaizumi gritted his teeth and stayed silent.

They stepped out into the Chicago O’Hare Airport, and the first thing Iwaizumi noticed was that America seemed to smell different than Japan did. It was a strange, little difference, but American air seemed to be made of ocean and wind.

Around them were colossal signs, all written in English, and the souvenirs, which screamed things like “I LOVE CHICAGO” and “JOHN HANCOCK IS BAE”. Facing to the left was a huge glass windows, which showed a sky streaked with sunset and a massive parking lot filled with thousands of cars. Above it was an elevated railroad and the silhouette of the distant Chicago skyscrapers, and Iwaizumi couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live here.

The members of Seijoh’s band regrouped near the gates, went through the tedious process of getting checked out, and then crowded near a tiny Starbucks to figure out where exactly they were going to go.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa were sent into the Starbucks to order because they had the highest grades in English, and they emerged a few minutes later with bottled drinks and an arbitrary assortment of pastries. Iwaizumi took a mango drink and uncapped it. It tasted familiar yet strange.

The flight affected everyone in various degrees. Some people were okay, looking a little tired and unkempt but not much else, munching on croissants and flipping through pamphlets. Others looked a little sick, their grips a little too tight on the bottles as they took tentative swallows of their drink, testing to see whether or not they could hold it down.

And then there was Oikawa, whose head was between his knees, as if curling up  would expel the nausea.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi said, passing him a bottle of water. “Just breathe, alright?”

Oikawa was too sick to retort.

Irihata-sensei looked up from his phone and tucked it into his bag. “Alright. There’s a short walk over to the nearby train station, and then we’ve got an hour or so long ride over to our hotel.”

The train was fast and bumpy and crowded, and Oikawa seemed ready to vomit at any second. But he refused to lean on anybody else during the trip, an arm slung over the seatrest with his knuckles white and a confident smile plastered on his sweaty, ashen face.

He kept it together all the way until they got to the hotel. A hallway was reserved for Aoba Johsai, four people to a room. Hanamaki, Matsukawa, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi were sharing, and the moment Iwaizumi slid in the card and opened the door, Oikawa ran for the bathroom. Seconds later, retching noises could be heard.  

Iwaizumi took in the hotel room: several lamps, a few cabinets, and two double beds. He rubbed his temples, anticipating the slew of inevitable jokes. “Oh god.”

Matsukawa smiled wide and terrible. “Remember, if you and Oikawa are going to sleep together-”

“-Use a condom!” Hanamaki finished, and they burst out laughing.

“Please. It’s you two we should be worried about,” Iwaizumi said.

“Why, Iwaizumi, we would _never_ ,” Matsukawa gasped, placing a hand to his chest.

Hanamaki shook his head mournfully. “Such a dirty mind, Iwaizumi. What would the first years say?”

“Get a _room_ , you two,” Iwaizumi groaned.

“But Iwaizumi,” Hanamaki said, eyes angelically wide. “We’re already in one.”

\---

Iwaizumi couldn’t sleep.

Next to him, Oikawa was curled up underneath the blankets in a deep, peaceful slumber. After spending thirty minutes puking into the toilet - Iwaizumi was amazed he’d held out for as long as he did, honestly - he’d crashed to the bed and didn’t move again.

Though Matsukawa wasn’t airsick, he’d been nearly as tired as Oikawa and passed out not long after. Iwaizumi had followed his example and tried to get some rest, but after staring at the ceiling for a good hour he slipped out of bed to get his trumpet. He couldn’t exactly play, but at least he could practice fingering.

All of the lights in the room were turned off, a single sliver of moonlight shining through the crack in the curtains. Iwaizumi could make out Hanamaki’s silhouette, perched on one of the desk chairs with his trombone.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi whispered.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Hanamaki said, voice resounding in the still room. “Both of them are quite dead.”

“You wanna get out of here?” Iwaizumi asked, gesturing to the doorway.

“What?” Hanamaki said. “Let’s sneak out onto the roof and smoke a weed?”

For some reason, that sent Iwaizumi into a hysterical bout of laughter. The twelve hours on a plane were finally starting to get to him. “Smoke a weed?”

“Not two weeds, not three weeds, not four hundred and twenty weeds,” Hanamaki said, struggling to keep himself composed. “ONE weed.”

“Dude, are you drunk?”

“Nah, just really, really jetlagged,” Hanamaki said. He leaned back, elbows against the table. “I meant to say, let’s go down to the lobby and drink some water. Maybe practice a little bit.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Iwaizumi said. They slipped out of the doorway, instruments in hand, and took an elevator down to the first floor.

The lobby of the hotel was brightly lit, decorated with patterned wallpaper and elaborate furniture. Iwaizumi and Hanamaki got complimentary plastic cups of water and settled into armchairs, a wooden table between them. The wall clock read 11:47 PM.

“Alright,” Hanamaki said, settling into one of the chairs. “Can we just… okay, it’s really late at night and I have no control over what I’m saying, so can we both pretend that we’re drunk and that we’re not going to remember any of this tomorrow?”

“What?” Iwaizumi asked, even though he was fairly certain what Hanamaki was getting at.

“Just… say whatever we want to say. Get it out of our systems.”

“Alright.”

Hanamaki slammed his hands onto the table. Fortunately, only the hotel receptionist gave any notice. “I get that we’re going to be performing at the world-famous Chicago Pride Festival tomorrow, but there’s a HUGE difference between supporting gay and actually being gay, okay? Especially when it’s your BEST FRIEND that you have a crush on, because that’s goddamn terrifying.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth fell open, because in a few sentences, Hanamaki had just summed up everything that had been building up inside Iwaizumi ever since he was little.

Hanamaki frowned. “Say something.”

“No, I just…”

“Yeah, I get it,” Hanamaki said, his mouth suddenly lifted in a smirk. “You and Oikawa have _got_ to get it together, man-”

“-Please, Matsukawa’s sax has gotten more action than you have-”

“-Oh thank god, I’m not the only one with the instrument problem.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “Seriously, is Watari the only one in the band who’s…”

“LGBTQIAP+?”

“...straight. I meant straight.”

“Or that,” Hanamaki said, shrugging. He paused a bit. “I like your armbands, by the way. Pride, yeah?”

“Pride,” Iwaizumi agreed. He and Hanamaki stopped talking after that, silently fingering their instruments. Because it was much, much safer to channel feelings into pages of difficult music instead of a single string of words that could change everything.

_I’m gay. I like you. Do you like me back?_

\---

Hanamaki and Iwaizumi had slipped back into the hotel room a few hours later, and Iwaizumi fell into a half-sleep, dreaming of nothing in particular. He woke up to the sound of Oikawa’s phone alarm, set to the song ET by Katy Perry.

Oikawa looked practically normal, as if yesterday’s nausea hadn’t even happened to him. He was dressed in a rainbow tie-dye t-shirt and a set of armbands that were identical to Iwaizumi’s. Matsukawa had brought bottles of rainbow spray paint and unleashed a storm of color on Iwaizumi’s white t-shirt, proclaiming that Iwaizumi’s “half-assed armbands were not going to cut it.”

“Hey, those are _mine_ , and nothing about me is half-assed!” Oikawa said.

“Your ass is half-assed,” Iwaizumi pointed out.

“Shut up. My ass is amazing.”

The Aoba Johsai band met downstairs and headed for the built-in breakfast place, which offered a mini-breakfast buffet of strange American foods. Iwaizumi got a piece of toast then headed straight for the coffee bar, filling a large cup to the brim. Considering the amount of sleep he’d gotten, he didn’t look too bad, just some dark circles under his eyes and a grimmer complexion than usual.

Having gotten his food, he joined his bandmates at the spot they’d carved out in the corner of the room. Hanamaki also had an overflowing cup of coffee, along with a plate filled with cream puffs.

“So unhealthy,” Matsukawa chided through a mouthful of profiterole. “Don’t you know the importance of eating a balanced breakfast?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This _is_ a balanced breakfast.”

Kindaichi, like a good child, was eating some toast with egg. Next to him, Kunimi artfully arranged tater tots around his plate. Yahaba and Watari were playing with the instant waffle maker (“There’s like five different flavors? What is this?”), and Oikawa was stirring some kind of rainbow cereal around in his milk, not taking a single bite out of it.

“Eat. Your. Food,” Iwaizumi said, gesturing wildly to Oikawa’s bowl.

“I have never seen such colorful cereal in my life,” Hanamaki said. “It matches your freaking shirt.”

“Just channeling his inner rainbow,” Matsukawa said. “Oh, by the way, why’d you and Iwaizumi sneak out last night?”

Hanamaki managed to keep himself completely composed, but Iwaizumi choked on his coffee, blowing it.

“Wait, what’d I miss?” Matsukawa said.

Oikawa frowned. “What are you guys talking about?”

“I get woken up by light, not sound,” Matsukawa said. “So I saw Hanamaki and Iwaizumi sneaking out of the door, but I was too tired to follow you guys out. And I don’t know what you two were doing, but it looks like there was some… stuff going on.”

“Oh my god, I swear I’m not in a secret relationship with Iwaizumi. Like, no offense, he’s not my type, so stop looking at me like that,” Hanamaki snapped.

“So,” Oikawa said, leaning over. “What were you two talking about? Anything in particular?”

“Nothing,” Iwaizumi said, which was precisely the wrong thing to say. Oikawa’s eyes gleamed with the promise of interrogation.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” Oikawa said.

Hanamaki sighed. “We just went outside to practice our instruments, okay? Nothing else.”

Oikawa looked far from convinced, but he let the subject drop for the time being and dipped a spoon into his by-now rainbow soup. Iwaizumi knew that Oikawa would bring it up with him later, when they were alone, so that Oikawa could properly wheedle and be all Iwa-chan this and Iwa-chan that.

“Alright,” Irihata-sensei announced as they finished. “I’ve been reading a lot of pamphlets on this and I’ve heard that there are going to be a _lot_ of people, so y’all need to stay close, you hear? Follow me.”

They walked down the busy streets and went through the painful process of boarding the Subway. It was crowded, and Iwaizumi was mashed against a pole as the train lurched forward.

“I’ve read a couple of guides here and there, too,” Hanamaki said, speaking over the din. He was holding on for dear life onto a hanger, trying not to get smashed into an angry-looking old lady. “Apparently we might get hit on?”

“That’ll be a new experience for Iwa-chan- OW! GET OFF!”

“We’re holding onto the same pole, you idiot,” Iwaizumi grumbled, scooching over so that Oikawa could reclaim his spot.

“You’re just jealous of my good looks,” Oikawa teased, sticking his tongue out.

“Which are literally the only thing decent thing about you.”

“So you _do_ admit that I’m handsome- geez, Iwa-chan! I’m just stating the truth here,” Oikawa whined, ducking another blow from Iwaizumi.

“You two are so gay,” Matsukawa said. “What’s that thing that Americans do when they smash two people’s names together? Boating? We need a boat for you guys.”

“Hmm… Iwakawa? Oiiwa? Iwaoi?” Hanamaki said.

“I like Iwaoi. Let’s stick with that,” Matsukawa said.

Iwaizumi scoffed, though a tiny voice in the back of his mind acknowledged that it kind of had a nice ring to it. Oikawa gasped. “Hey! Iwa-chan’s name is first!”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Iwaizumi yelled. “We have our own goddamned boat!”

“A _badly-named_ boat!”

“Keep talking and we’re going to have a man overboard.”

“I feel bad for their future children,” Matsukawa said. “The naming process is going to be terrible.”

“That’s what Uncle Makki will be here for!” Hanamaki said cheerily. “Oh, hey, next stop’s ours.”

Iwaizumi rested his forehead against the pole. “I hate you _all_.”

\---

Chicago was insane.

“The show doesn’t start for a few hours, so you’ll have some time to look around,” Irihata-sensei said.

Iwaizumi didn’t even know where to begin. The initial intake was mind-blowing: crowds upon crowds people, a thronging mass of clamour and shouting; vendors holding food and merchandise, weaving between the huge buildings; rainbows everywhere, the whole place doused in color.

It pulsed with a foreign kind of energy, and Iwaizumi didn’t know what to feel.

Maybe Hanamaki was a prophet, because Iwaizumi _did_ get hit on. Right at the beginning, in fact, when he was still reeling from all the brightness. An American boy around his age walked up to him, brown-haired and blue-eyed. “Hey.”

Iwaizumi was momentarily stunned. Oh god. He was bad enough with romance in Japanese; he’d be hopeless at English. “Hi,” he said. His accent was obvious even in that one word.

“You play the trumpet?” The boy asked smoothly, gesturing towards Iwaizumi’s case. He radiated intention and Iwaizumi was starting to sweat. Matsukawa and Kindaichi were next to him, watching the scene with fascination.

“Yes,” Oikawa interjected, coming out from the right and slipping his hand into Iwaizumi’s. “He play trumpet, very well, Iwa-chan.” And oh god, the boy was _smirking_ at Oikawa’s broken English, but he waved a hand and walked off.

“Did you just-” Iwaizumi freed his hand from Oikawa’s “-pretend to be my boyfriend?”

Oikawa took Iwaizumi’s hand and folding their fingers together again. “What the hell are you doing?” Iwaizumi asked, hoping his blush could be attributed to the blazing sun.

“I’m doing you a favor. Now you won’t get hit on,” Oikawa explained easily. “Honestly, you should be _thanking_ me-”

“-your hands are really sweaty.”

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Iwa-chan. You’ll never hold hands with someone so gorgeous again.”

“Your hands are still sweaty.”

“Deal with it. So ungrateful,” Oikawa said. He was being dismissive, but something in his words made Iwaizumi wonder.

As they walked, Oikawa’s hand still tangled with Iwaizumi’s, he couldn’t help but entertain the fantasy that they _were_ at the festival together, just one of the thousands of couples there wanting to show their pride. The scenery, now that Iwaizumi had gotten a closer look, was nothing like anything Iwaizumi had seen before.

He passed by a group of girls wearing silvery bikinis and rainbow tutus and boys wearing nothing but a pair of rainbow boxers. There were people holding guitars and microphones, singing of love and acceptance, and others holding signs that screamed stuff like “I AM GAY, AND I AM BEAUTIFUL.”

And everywhere he looked, there was rainbows. Ribbons and banners and balloons, carpets and signs and lettering, like a giant version of Matsukawa’s spray cans had blasted the entire city.

Later, as they played onstage (all the way from Miyagi, Japan, Aoba Johsai!), the audience had danced and shouted lyrics to the songs that Iwaizumi hadn’t even known they had. Sweat streamed down the face as his fingers automatically picked out the correct notes, he didn’t even have to think.

All he had to do was _feel_ , and it was so surreal. Like a dream, like Iwaizumi could wake up from it any moment, this hazy blur of people screaming in all the colors of the rainbow.

Not just pro-LGBT.

LGBT.

And that took Iwaizumi’s breath away.

\---

“Ugh,” Hanamaki moaned. “I totally fucked up like, eight measures.”

“No one notices that kind of stuff,” Matsukawa said. “Besides, knowing you, you probably forgot a sharp or something.”

“It was a lot of sharps.”

“And that’s fine. That’s completely natural.”

“...you did not just.”

After the performance, they’d crashed for awhile at the hotel and then ate dinner at a nearby restaurant called Portillo’s. It was busy, not the kind of insane crowded that Chicago was, just the normal level of packed for a healthy business.

Iwaizumi had ordered spaghetti and meatballs. American cuisine was interesting, too new for Iwaizumi to fully flesh out an opinion, but he decided that it was something he could definitely like.

Oikawa was eating Iwaizumi’s dinner rolls, and Iwaizumi let him because at least the moron was eating. Oikawa had just finished the second one when he announced, “I’m going out to get some air.”

Iwaizumi stood up. “I’m also coming to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Don’t stray from the parking lot,” Irihata-sensei yelled. Iwaizumi and Oikawa settled onto the curb outside of the doorway. It was hot, but a pleasant kind of hot, with a breeze added in.

They were outside of the heart of Chicago now. Not as bright, not as loud, a kind of peaceful that reminded Iwaizumi of home.

“Hey, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“The Pride Fest… I just, um, I wanted to say…” He struggled for words.

“Spit it out, you moron.”

“I’m gay,” Oikawa mumbled. His face was turned up at the sky, the words spoken into the wind. Warmth spread through Iwaizumi’s chest.

“So am I,” Iwaizumi said. Quietly.

Oikawa smiled, and he looked so genuine, his facade having been peeled away for the time being. “Yeah, I just realized how cool Aoba Johsai is, that we get to do things like this? I mean, I always felt like it wasn’t normal to like boys or anything, but today was just so… I don’t even know.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said. He remembered the rush, the realization that you could be anything you wanted and it was right, that you were fine.

“What made you realize it?” Oikawa asked.

“I felt a fucking sense of kinship to nonlinear equations. Parabolas, to be exact. You?”

Oikawa shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve kind of _always_ known? And anyway, what were you and Mattsun talking about last night?”

Iwaizumi groaned. And Oikawa was back. “Seriously, why do you care?”

“Because you two were gossiping without me!”

“We were not _gossiping_.”

“Then what were you doing?” Oikawa asked, pressing himself close to Iwaizumi’s side. Iwaizumi felt trapped.

“Just, how it was to be gay, that’s all,” Iwaizumi grumbled.

“YOU TOLD MAKKI AND NOT ME? I FEEL BETRAYED.”

“Stop whining, it’s no big deal,” Iwaizumi said.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me first,” Oikawa said, and Iwaizumi realized that Oikawa was legitimately hurt. No matter how much Iwaizumi punched him on a regular basis, Iwaizumi would never, ever want to hurt him. He sighed. “It’s not like that, I swear.”

“Then what is it like?”

_Here goes nothing_. “He said that he liked his best friend and didn’t know what to do, and I said that I, uh, felt the same way.”

“You like _Mattsun_?”

“...Why are you so stupid.”

“Wait, no, you’re confessing to me!”

“Someone kill me now, please.”

“Wait, _seriously_?”

“Not anymore. I take it all back,” Iwaizumi said, thinking that this was maybe the most agonizing moment he’d had since rejecting Aiko back in middle school.

“No, gah, sorry, I like you too, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, and something happy and soft bloomed in Iwaizumi’s chest, no racing heart or dazed thoughts, just a quiet _oh_. “When I was five, my mom asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said that I wanted to be a trumpet.”

At this, Iwaizumi laughed hysterically, because damn, they _all_ had that instrument problem. “So, do we like, kiss now?”

“So romantic, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said teasingly.

“Pffft.”

“And no, not right now. I vomited a day ago.”

“...Wow.” Iwaizumi said. Oikawa flashed him a peace sign, and just like at the festival, he reached over and twined their fingers together. Except this time, it was real, their rainbow armbands flashing underneath the brilliant Chicago skies.


End file.
